Keeping your vices alive

The woman chewing hard on the plastic soda straw tossed her pair of aces contemptuously at the dealer, and shot me one of those “if looks could kill,” dead-eyed stares.

“Bleep,” she said, slowly. “Bleep, bleep, bleep.”

It was the third hand in the last 20 minutes playing poker that I beat her on the river (last card). Pure luck.

The dealer pushed the pot my way, and the woman chewing the plastic straw gave me one more bleep just in case I missed the other four.

So here’s the thing about retired guys like me who are still carrying around a vice or two from the old days. A couple of years into Social Security, you find yourselves sitting at a Texas Hold’em card table in a freeway-close casino at 2 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon.

Prime time for my people.

You start out of curiosity. You’re driving by the Commerce Casino early one afternoon, look over at the packed parking lot, and think, “Who are all those people inside at this hour?”

Only one way to find out.

I played at a $2-$4 table (low stakes in the poker world) a couple of months ago with a few buddies who will remain anonymous because if you met them on the street the first thing you’d think was “witness protection program,” and their wives wouldn’t like that.

I went back a week ago by myself to win back the $30 I lost. I bought in for $50. Big time, Harry.

Here’s the table. Sitting on my left is a middle-aged, dour guy dressed in all green. I mean every inch is green. He gets up to smoke a few inches off his big cigar outside, and when he gets back I make the mistake of asking him why all the green.

He ignores me, looks over at the dealer and says, “We playing cards here or talking?”

Beautiful. That’s another thing you have to know about people playing Texas Hold’em at 2 o’clock on a weekday afternoon. They let you know what’s on their mind, and it’s not brotherly love or world peace.

The smell of contempt is in the air. They’re here to beat your brains out and take every last buck in your pocket as quickly as they can. This is the rent money they’re trying to make.

Next to the guy in green is the plastic straw-chewing lady who’s still grumbling about the second best hands she’s getting. But now she’s turned her venom on the waitress who keeps ignoring her request for a Diet Coke.

“Whadda I have to do to get some service around here?” she yells.

Next to her is a guy with dyed, jet black hair in his late 50s. Has a Louie Jordan, the French actor, worldly look to him — dressed real nice. The clothes don’t help, though. He keeps getting up every half hour to go the ATM for more cash.

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Next to him is a walking skin-cancer case with a lot of hard years on him. He’s had way too much sun and booze, and now he’s sitting at a poker table pushing 60 wondering out loud where the nearest beach is to Commerce.

“Probably Long Beach,” says Louie Jordan.

“Is it long?” the faded beach boy asks.

This is when you look up from your cards, let your eyes wander around the table, and think to yourself it can’t get any better than this.

You’ve got a stack of chips in front of you, and some guy you’ll never see again is asking if Long Beach is long. As a matter of fact it is. Very long.

Next to Mr. Long Beach is a guy wearing a dirty, white T-shirt that’s six inches too short for his distended belly. Obnoxious guy who keeps making stupid, snide digs trying to get under people’s skin. Anything for an edge.

It isn’t working. He gets up an hour into the game — mad at the dealer — and leaves. Nobody says “goodbye, have a nice day, pal.”

Next to him is a young guy I can’t get a read on. He just stares at everyone with a knowing smile on his face, like he can see our down cards. But he’s not winning, so what’s he smiling about?

Next to him is the dealer, and next to her is me.

By now my $50 is $100, and I’m thinking I’m Amarillo Slim, tipping the dealer after every winning hand like I’m Sinatra.

“You know you’re just lucky,” says the woman with the plastic straw in her mouth.

Mr. Green gets tired of the side action and racks his chips. He leaves the big winner. The Beach Boy starts arguing with Louie Jordan over who has first dibs on Mr. Green’s hot seat. The Beach Boy wins, and slides in next to me.

“So what’s your (poker) strategy?” he asks, not expecting an answer because he really doesn’t care.

Strategy? Pretty simple, pal. Drive by a casino at 2 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon and wonder who’s inside?

Find out it’s Mr. Green, the plastic straw chewing lady, Louie Jordan, an old beach boy, an obnoxious guy in a dirty, white T-shirt, and me.

A retired guy killing a Wednesday afternoon trying to keep his vices alive.